Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Julian
Muffled roars of motorcycles echo ahead as I pull into one of the few spots left in The Whispering Fool’s parking lot.
I spent the rest of the afternoon hunting down materials for a piece I wanted to start working on, and trying to convince myself that staying here isn’t as dangerous as it seems. Between my conversation with Mickey and the mess that is Cora Billings, I want to understand exactly what Birdie and Lu Crowne are doing and with how much frequency in this town.
The door to the bar is flanked by an intimidating pair of women, their arms crossed, keeping a roped-off line at bay.
It’s a crowd that’s starting to curve around the side of the building.
There’s a handful of men, similar in height and build as me, wearing leather cuts that show off the location of their motorcycle club, plenty of others who I wouldn’t remember, and groups of women peering at me as I bypass all of it and head straight for the doors.
“Nope,” the tall woman says as I approach, holding her hand up in front of my chest. It hovers inches from touching me. I look down at it, then back up to her as she says, “You wait in that line, just like everyone else.”
I flash her a smile.
“Still nope,” she says, monotone.
I sniff a laugh. “Alright, would it help if I told you I’m a family friend of the Crownes?” I ask, glancing inside at the sea of people gawking at the bartenders who dance on the bar. I didn’t realize it was going to be as lively as this.
“Do you have a reading with Birdie tonight? Is that it?” the other bouncer asks, holding out her hand for what I assume is my ID.
I wanted to speak with her, so I say, “Yes?” as I pull it out of my wallet and clear my throat.
I’m usually a better liar. I’m off my game here—have been since I woke up tied to that damn chair.
She looks up at me with a questioning glare. “At least some of these assholes put in an effort when they’re lying to my face.” She smiles sarcastically. “Back of the line.”
When I move to put my ID back, I slide her a folded-up twenty-dollar bill. She holds it up, glancing at the line that’s at least fifteen people deep. “I see you’ve dropped a hundred dollars under your shoe right there. Might want to pick it up.”
I can’t help but smirk at her as she watches me reach into my pocket and pull out a hundred. “This the one you saw?”
Plucking it from my fingers, she nods and opens space for me to fit through the threshold of the bar. “That’d be the one.”
Last time I set foot in here, there wasn’t a living soul until Wyn walked in.
But now, the chest-pounding beat of drums hits me the moment I step inside.
The Whispering Fool is nothing like the bar in Montana.
Hell, I’ve been to plenty of places, from roadhouses to speakeasies, but this place isn’t like those either. This is something all its own.
The same drumbeat repeats, now with the stomping of feet on top of the bar to amplify the song’s intro. The band in the corner of the bar brings in the violin next, and “I’m Shipping Up to Boston” starts to echo, with yelling cheers throughout the bar as most join in.
An alligator head sits prominently above the bar, with a variety of lace and satin garments draping from its mouth, acting as this place’s centerpiece.
From there, it’s an eclectic mix of bold neon signs and oversize pieces of art, from an Andy Warhol print to a reimagined Monet donned in spray paint and glitter.
The place is a vibe with the lights on. Green plants fill corners as vines creep along edges and ledges, and even the ceiling is peppered with oversize florals and chandeliers that hang from its wooden beams. There isn’t a single spot in here that feels untouched or ignored.
It’d feel alive even without people packed inside.
The creative part of me flexes, effortlessly inspired by everything I’m taking in.
There aren’t too many faces focused on the band, however, because the real entertainment of this place is absolutely the women whose last name is carved into the front of the massive bar they’re perched on.
It’s the same spot where a dead man was slumped on the floor.
Looking around some more, I notice three of the men in leather cuts who walked in after me are now speaking with Lu Crowne as if they’ve known each other their entire lives. Her head tips back in a laugh as she pulls a bottle of Jack and shows off a long pour into a row of shot glasses.
The crowd is a melting pot of people—drunk couples making out, random trios who look like friends, four girls with matching sashes draped over them that read: The Party, and handfuls of men who range from cowboy wannabes in cutoffs, to bikers, to businessmen in khakis and loafers who look like their bourbon tour took a wrong turn.
If this place was in Nashville or New York—hell, even Miami—I don’t think it would stand out, but this feels like a spectacle in a town as small as Rumor.
A crew of university students stands starstruck, staring up in awe of the woman gliding around the top of the bar on roller skates.
She’s all confidence in her cutoff jeans shorts and a cropped shirt that has a picture of a rooster on the front and, when she spins, a lollipop on the back.
Stevie Crowne commands the rest of the room while she double-fists two bottles.
The youngest sister, Jo, calls out numbers and points to the crowd who raise their hands to bid on something.
With a steadying stance, she launches small balls of fur with a slingshot into the crowd.
I stand in the back, leaning against the only empty pillar, entertained by the dopamine kick that is this establishment.
The balcony railing glows pink, and the vibrant neon sign above the arched ceiling looks like a classic-style tattoo of an ornate crown with a cursive font written across it—Whiskey Women.
I glance around again, hoping to see Wyn somewhere.
I came looking for Birdie, but now that I’m here, there’s only one person I have any desire to lay eyes on.
“First time, right?” a voice asks from beside me, smirking when I turn to look at him and nod.
Theo leans against the other side of the pillar. He passes me a cracked-open can of a craft lager without his attention ever leaving the woman gliding around the bar on skates.
“Is it always like this?”
He takes a sip, mulling over the question at first, and then chuckles. “Yeah, most nights. But Thursday through Saturday are the wild ones. Wait until Lu gets on the shot swing.” He tuts. “That’s when shit gets a little unhinged.”
“What are they auctioning off?” I ask, slinking my hand into my back pocket and taking a drink of my beer.
Barely covering his laugh, he holds his fist in front of his mouth.
“Oh, Julian, my man.” He claps his hand on my shoulder.
“Just fucking wait. Honestly, my girl is hot as fuck, so I get the hype. But the crowd goes wild for all of this. When you add Lu, Stevie, or Jo to the equation, people will pay a pretty penny to be slapped around and poured out cheap shots.”
Movement toward the side door, and then someone smoothly sliding beneath the bar, grabs both of our attention.
Wyn. I got the impression that she didn’t set foot behind that bar, that she might be the sibling that doesn’t fit in with her family and their antics.
What she was wearing the other night screams the polar opposite of what she’s wearing now.
I’m not sure which one I like better. The tight black jean shorts that hug her perfect heart-shaped ass are giving at least a half a dozen men and two women a helluva show, while her tight white T-shirt reminds me of what she wore when she was “Naomi.”
“What’s going on with you and my sister-in-law?” Theo asks curiously as we watch her pour pints from the row of beers on tap. She fills orders that her sisters call out without so much as turning to get paid for them.
“More than I’d like to share,” I tell him honestly. There’s a helluva lot that’s gone on between us, but I’m nowhere near understanding any of it.
He tips his drink back, takes a swig, and says, “I can respect that.”
I watch as Wyn moves behind the bar, her longer, light brown hair pulled back off her face, showing off those high cheekbones and deep green eyes.
The shape of her is damn near mouthwatering, but when she smiles, I’m brought right back to the night I kissed her, touched her, watched her come so fucking hard I nearly had myself.
She laughs when Stevie rolls by, and again, even harder when she and Jo see something at the same time and widen their eyes at the other.
She’s focused as she pours, her body moving effortlessly, like she could handle every single order on her own.
No fear or hesitation, it’s such a fucking turn-on.
When I realize that I’ve been staring, a black-and-white stuffed cat bounces off my chest. My reflexes have it in my grip, stopping it from falling to the floor.
Theo laughs into his beer like he knows something I don’t.
“I don’t want this,” I say, holding it up for him to take.
Theo shakes his head, smiling like he just won the lottery. “I’m so fucking happy I stopped in before heading out.”
“You travel a lot for work?” I ask him over the riff of Pat Benatar warning off heartbreakers.
“A bit,” he answers as he looks up at the few people moving across the balcony.
The walkway runs along the upper part of the right wall and looks more like a fire escape that was built inside instead of out.
I follow his line of sight to the people waiting outside of a sheer red curtain that’s billowing in and out with whatever’s making the air move up there.